Smoke and Mirrors (20 page)

But it
was
funny. A tempest in a teapot, the result of strained nerves and Nick's unfortunate habit of moving his mouth without
consulting his brain, or his heart. He had them both, intelligence and compassion, and he had another talent, that of stirring people up. I enjoyed that, Erin thought disbelievingly. A good straight fight, the kind I've always shied away from. You've come a long way, baby.

Erin was looking
forward to an evening off too, though she had
no idea what she wanted to do with it until she learned that her assumption has been erroneous. "I want to wash my hair," she bleated, as Joe handed her a thick report that had to be retyped. "And read and write to my mother and—"

"Life is tough all over, kid," said Joe.

Kay was more sympathetic than Erin had expected; the euphoria of her trip to Middleburg still lingered. "I'm sorry I can't help you, Erin. If I hadn't been so clumsy ... I never imagined it would be as bad as this. ' She looked resentfully at her bandaged hand. "The fingers are healing nicely, but there's still something wrong with the thumb. You wouldn't think a little thing like a thumb could be so important."

"Ask any anthropologist," Joe said. He picked up his briefcase and stalked out.

"Goodness, he's in a bad mood," Kay muttered. "And Rosemary is even worse."

"I suppose this business about the leak has upset them."

"Oh, that." Kay shrugged. "None of us had anything to do with it, so they can't prove we did. Let's have a bite of supper and then get started on that report."

Supper was the usual buffet arrangement, with people wandering in and out as their schedules allowed. Kay allowed no lingering over coffee; they went straight to her office, and it was almost ten before she leaned back in her chair with a sigh and allowed as how she was getting too tired to think sensibly. "Just finish that last letter, Erin," she said. "Leave them and the report on Rosemary's desk. And turn off the lights when you leave."

"Yes, ma'am. Thank you, ma'am."

The sarcasm was lost on Kay. Just as well, Erin reflected guiltily, as she watched the older woman make her slow way to the
door. Why should she resent Kay, when she had everything Kay wanted and was rapidly losing—youth, competence, a healthy body and a future limited only by what she could do with it?

With any luck she would still have time to wash her hair. Might as well dash off a note to her mother right now, while she was at the typewriter. She could claim, with perfect truth, that she was too busy to write a long, chatty letter. The cheerful remarks she had imagined herself writing—humorous stories about the funny things that happened during a political campaign—didn't seem appropriate. "Funny things" was right. Not the sort of funny things a depressed widow would find amusing.

She finished the last letter and the note. "Don't worry, Mom, I'm a little tired, but so is everyone else; and the job is fascinating. I had no idea ..." Lucky her mother couldn't see her face as she fought her way out of one Freudian tangle after another. ". . .no idea how complicated politics is." Of all the stupid remarks! Doggedly she continued, "Everyone has been so kind to me ..." Especially Philips Laurence.
". . .
and I'm learning a lot." Such as how to return a bribe and avoid nosy reporters. She yanked the paper out of the machine and signed it. "Your loving daughter." Well, that was a simple statement of truth, at any rate.

Writing the string of evasions had exhausted her. She gathered up the report and the letters she had typed and went to Rosemary's office. The room was quite dark; shrubbery outside the windows obscured what little light came from moon and stars. She didn't realize someone else was there until she turned on the light and saw a form huddled forlornly in the window seat, half concealed by the long draperies.

Instantly and reflexively her hand reversed the switch, but the image had burned itself onto her vision. Rosemary was wearing her favorite at-home costume of oversized shirt and faded jeans, and her feet were bare. Somehow the pale, dusty toes looked even more pathetic than the clear evidence of tears.

"It's all right. You can turn the light on." Rosemary's voice gave nothing away.

"I didn't know you were here."

"Why should you? I must have startled you as much as you startled me." A softer, kindlier light went on; Rosemary had
reached out to turn on a standing lamp. "Kay shouldn't have kept you working so late."

Since the damage was done, Erin crossed to the desk and put the papers down. "I don't mind. I mean, she was working too. I mean ... I'm on my way to bed right now."

She carefully avoided looking at Rosemary. "Sit down for a minute," the latter said quietly. "Unless you're too tired."

"Oh, no. But I don't want—"

"I know you don't. But I'd like to tell you why I'm blubbering here in the dark."

"You don't have to explain anything to me."

"You are the only person around here I don't have to explain myself to," Rosemary said with surprising vehemence. "Maybe that's why I'd like to. I get so tired of putting on an act—being cool and unruffled when I feel like screaming, pretending to be cheerful when I'm depressed, exhibiting a stiff upper lip when I want to cower in a corner. I have a feeling you know about that."

The words woke to aching life a nerve she had thought atrophied by now. She nodded mutely, remembering her mother's endless tears. She had wept for her husband's pain and for his loss; she had also wept for her loneliness and her fear of the future. There had been no room in that watery flood for Erin's grief.

Rosemary shifted position, edging forward so that the shadow of the draperies no longer hid her face. She was not one of those women who weep prettily (if any such really exist). Her nose was red, her eyes were swollen, and blotchy patches of pink marked her cheeks. "At least you had a noble cause for grief," she said, with a faint smile. "Do you know what I was bawling about? Today is my granddaughter's birthday. She's four. That's an important year, you know. She's a big girl now. That's what she said. It's the first birthday of hers I have missed. I always made it before, even if I had to fly out in the morning and back the same night."

Erin's eyes went to the photograph on the desk. It had been reproduced in one of Rosemary's publicity flyers: a formal photographic sitting that had gone awry and, as a consequence, had produced a uniquely charming picture. The little girl, perched on her mother's lap, had turned at the last minute to say something to her grandmother, who was seated on the couch beside her. The
child's smile, and Rosemary's delighted, doting grin intensified the resemblance between them to an uncanny degree; they had the same turned-up nose and wide mouth, the same dimple, the same determined chin. Rosemary's daughter was laughing, and the young man standing behind the couch leaned forward, arms spread as if to include the three generations of womenfolk in a warm embrace. Erin had never seen such an outpouring of love and affection captured on film. It was no wonder Joe had insisted on using the picture, over—Erin had heard—Rosemary's objections.

"She's adorable," Erin said. "I don't blame you for feeling sad. Why didn't you just say the hell with it, and go?"

Rosemary drew her knees up and circled them with her arms. "It wasn't only a question of time, though God knows we're short on that. I hate—" She made a fist and brought it down on the padded cushion. "I
hate
using my kids as political symbols. It degrades the whole relationship. Kevin, my son-in-law, is one of those rare people. ... It really was a case of not losing a daughter but gaining a son. I love them all, all three, so much. . . . Can't you see the press releases Joe would have sent out, if I had decided to go? 'Lo-o-o-ove is more important than politics,' says adoring grandmother."

"He wouldn't do that, " Erin exclaimed.

"Like hell he wouldn't. He'd have me walk naked down Pennsylvania Avenue if he thought it was worth a dozen votes. " A sudden spontaneous burst of laughter lit her face. "Fortunately, he knows it would have precisely the opposite effect. Sheer aesthetic horror would send hundreds of voters emigrating to Canada. Joe is furious with me because I refuse to drag the kids to fundraisers and bake sales. I don't want them involved. Especially since ..." She broke off and frowned at her toes.

"Why don't you fire him?' Erin asked. "Or is that a stupid question?"

"Not only is it a damned good question, it's one I've asked myself over and over." Rosemary's frown deepened. "It wouldn't be the first time Joe has been booted out in the middle of a campaign. He's abrasive, outspoken, rude—and the best in the business. Don't tell him I said so—his ego is inflated enough already—but I was enormously pleased and flattered when he
offered to work for me. And the very qualities that have cost him at least three jobs, and that drive me up the wall, are the qualities that make me value him. I need him all the more because everything else about what I'm doing is unreal. Sometimes I get the feeling that Rosemary Marshall exists only as a campaign poster and a series of platitudes mouthed over and over; that if you stripped the image away there wouldn't be anybody there."

"It sounds . . . awful. " The word was weak and inadequate, but Erin couldn't think of a better one. "Is it worth it?"

"That's another question I keep asking myself. But I know the answer. Maybe." Rosemary laughed mirthlessly. "I could say I wouldn't put myself through this torture if I didn't believe it was worth it, but that wouldn't be strictly accurate. Sometimes people do things out of habit, without ever questioning their motives. 'Because it's there.' I believe I can do some good; but every psychopath in history has believed that, from Alexander to Joe McCarthy. Of course they were wrong and I'm right. ..." Rosemary's chin rested on her raised knees. "Do you know what my favorite fantasy is?" she said dreamily. "I imagine myself running a real, honest, genuine campaign—the kind that never existed, at any time in history. I'd get up there to make a speech looking just the way I do now—baggy jeans, bulging hips, no makeup—and I'd tell it like it is. I'd tell the audience that Buzz Bennett is a slimy old lecher who has cheated on his long-suffering wife for forty years—and I'd go on to say that that doesn't matter as much as the fact that Buzz would sell his vote for a champagne breakfast or a token to the local whorehouse. I'd talk about the issues. I wouldn't try to win votes by equivocating or lying or avoiding questions.

I d cry if I felt like crying. Candidates for public office aren't allowed to shed tears in public, you know. Remember what happened to Ed Muskie? No, I suppose you don't; you're too young. But even Pat Schroeder's supporters criticized her when she broke down after announcing she wouldn't run for president."

"President Reagan used to cry," Erin said. Oh, Reagan." Rosemary dismissed the President with a flip of her hand. "He can get away with anything. I don't know how he does it; it is the ultimate triumph of image over reality. Or
charisma—defined as 'I don't know what the hell it is, but I wish I had it' "

"Some people think you do. "

"I hope not. I'd prefer to think my appeal is to reason rather than emotion. I'm kidding myself, of course. I have to tailor every speech to my audience, avoid issues that might offend. Joe doesn't want me to talk about women's issues. Women's issues, for God's sake!"

She broke off, with a snort of rage; and Erin said, " 'We're not a special-interest group! What's so special about our interest? We're your mothers, your sisters, your daughters, your wives. We care for your children and ours; we tend your aging parents and our own. We work in the factories and the hospitals, in the farmyards and in the shops and in the schools. We pay taxes. We don't pay as much as you do because we don't earn as much, even at the same job; but in what ways do our interests differ from yours? Don't all human beings want the same things? Don't you want peace and freedom—clean air to breathe and unpolluted water to drink? Do you care less about your children's safety and happiness than we do? Don't call us a special-interest group; and don't tell us that if it weren't for us you'd still be wearing skins and wielding clubs. Do you think so little of yourselves and so narrowly of our abilities?' "

She couldn't remember the rest of it.

Rosemary lifted her head. "That's the speech I made in support of the day-care bill."

"I know. I've been doing some reading." Erin added apologetically, "I didn't know much about politics when I came here, so I thought I had better try to catch up."

"But you memorized it!"

"I didn't intend to. I guess it just sort of stuck in my mind."

"I see." After a moment she swung her feet to the floor and stood up. "Damn, I'm stiff as a board. Never curl up in a corner to brood when you're over fifty, Erin. Oh, by the way—Jeff let it slip that his birthday is next week. We're going to have a surprise party—nothing fancy, just a cake and some silly presents."

"That's nice, " Erin said, smiling. Rosemary really seemed to be looking forward to the event; her eyes sparkled and the traces of tears were almost gone.

"Tell Nick, and warn him not to give it away." Rosemary wandered over to the desk and glanced at the letters. "Funny hats " she murmured, "and balloons. And those things—what do you call them—that you blow into, and a paper strip uncurls."

"And we all sing 'Happy Birthday.' "

"Of course. The rest of us will have to bellow, to drown Joe's voice. He's tone-deaf and croaks like a frog."

"I'll do my best. Well—good night."

"Good night."

But as she turned toward the door Rosemary said, "Erin?"

"Yes?"

"You asked me a question a while ago: 'Is it worth it?' I think you just answered that question. Yes, it is. Thank you."

The trained debater's voice dismissed her even as it left her speechless with gratified embarrassment. When she turned to close the door, Rosemary had seated herself at the desk and was reading the letters, her head propped on her hand.

As she climbed the stairs, Erin's mind was a welter of confused thoughts. That's what she meant, it must have been—you, the young, the future, you make it all worthwhile by your caring. What a cliche. . . . But she put it awfully well. Hard to resist that kind of flattery. . . . "She has a peculiar kind of charm," Laurence had said. "You haven't felt it yet—but you will."

Now she knew what he meant. Not charm, something stronger. More like magic.